Friday, July 17, 2015

That is how he greeted me last night. By shaking my hand. It was that awkward.

And fine. It was perfectly fine.

There wasn't time for conversation and I didn't go out of my way to make any before or after our game. That very may well have bothered him (it did post-implosion, anyway, that I wouldn't be all chummy and pretend that nothing had ever happened) but I don't care. He's not my friend. He will never be my friend. We don't need to catch up.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Brittany is a teammate on my Sunday team and she recently moved into an adjacent subdivision and so we have carpooled to a few games and, while I have known her for years, it's been fun getting to know her off of the soccer field.

So, when she asked me to sub because her team would be short on female players, I readily agreed.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

For the past week, I have been researching pet insurance for Brady. If I'm going to do it, now is the time; he turns two this week and, as you would expect, it's less expensive to insure a younger dog.

I'm pretty solidly on the fence about it because (obviously) it doesn't cover pre-existing conditions so it won't likely cover his anxiety meds, which could be a substantial expense, but it could really save my ass (and my credit) if he gets sick or injured.

But I have reservations investing in pet insurance because I feel like it will encourage me to go to extraordinary measures if he gets a rare cancer or something where, really, the more humane decision would probably be to treat his pain and make the end of his life comfortable.

Not exactly what I want to be thinking about but I guess it's responsible pet ownership.

I was researching before I went to bed last night, getting quotes from a few different companies and comparing coverage and still unable to make up my mind if I would even be buying coverage. Insurance is confusing, even for dogs. Making decisions is hard, at least is for me.

Then this morning, Brady wakes up with a goopy eye. It seems he picked up a little something at the dog park. I probably need to take him to the vet.

Friday, July 10, 2015

I am constantly on edge and, sometimes, I think that if she asks me to do one more thing, I am going to explode.

It's not even the actual care giving that I'm irritated about, to be honest (and she doesn't need much help anyway), it is all of the other extras that are on top of it that I'm doing because Mom is volunteering me and I don't have a choice and it's making me resentful. I haven't had much of a life since her surgery and I am just tired.

Mom is doing too much (taking care of my grandpa daily, throwing three parties over the course of three weekends, etc.) and feels awful because of it and then she's in a bad mood because she feels too bad to get everything done that she wants to get done and then she asks me to pitch in and that's okay but I just want to yell at her. SLOW DOWN, MOTHER. YOU'RE DOING THIS TO YOURSELF.

And her attitude sucks. I think that might actually be what's really driving me mad. I happen to believe that your attitude is pretty indicative of your outcome and, if that's the case, she should just stop going to physical therapy and getting out of bed every morning and die of an infected bed sore. That's how bad her attitude sucks.

I get it. I get that it is miserable. I know she's frustrated. But the things she says make me want to wring her neck. "I am going to be unemployed because I won't be able to work" and "this surgery is the worst decision I have ever made" and similar nonsense.

It's a pointless fight to have so I never say anything. Usually I just put Meg on her. Being that she's a physical therapist and more familiar with the whole process, she's very blunt. "When you got this surgery, you knew that recovery would be 3-6 months. It's been 6 weeks. Buck up."

Mom usually listens to Meg. She just needs frequent lectures.

Throughout this whole process, I've been pretty good about taking this all for what it is. It's the surgery, it's not my mom. She was just so frustrating yesterday. When I finally got home, I stewed until I went to bed and then I had anxiety dreams all night long.

She seems better today and we're on the cusp of another big family weekend (tomorrow is Anna's baby shower) so I just need to take a deep breath, finish blogging out all of this ugly and get over it.

Thursday, July 09, 2015

In my mail yesterday, I got a promotional post card for one of those super inexpensive chain gyms and it occurred to me (not for the first time) that I am an idiot and I needed to quit my gym posthaste.

I realize that this action seems somewhat counter intuitive for someone who is quite regularly blogging about her struggle to regain her fitness but hear me out.

I have been saying that I need to quit my gym for years now and the only thing that kept me from doing it was that I used it. I had a good thing going.

Until I didn't.

The gym I belonged to until a few hours ago was a big chain with all of the amenities: the steam room and classes and a pool and childcare and a cafe and towels and a hundred other amenities that I never used. What I did use regularly were the cardio machines and, this is a fact: nobody should pay upwards of $70/month to use a treadmill.

I've known for a while that I should cancel because I wasn't using enough to justify the price but just never got around to it. Then I injured my knee and any semblance of a gym routine crashed and burned, anyway. It went from bad to worse.

I will miss my swanky gym but I will not miss feeling guilty about it.

I felt guilty about how much it cost. I felt guilty about how much I was(n't) using it. I felt guilty about how I was using it.

I feel bad about enough things in my life. I am very much over my gym being one of them.

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.